


Shifting

by Jadzialove



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M, snarry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadzialove/pseuds/Jadzialove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone Harry loves gets the shock of his afterlife while looking in on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shifting

**Author's Note:**

> Very first attempt at writing Snarry. Written for Sycophant Hex's Deathday Festival and answered challenge number 4--First Person narrative from an adult canon character: Write a story from the viewpoint of a dead character who is observing events of the living. This story was entered in the Sycophant Hex: Deathday Festival, and won Second Place Prize.
> 
> Thank you to Vaughn for her wonderful beta services; and thank you to RaeWhit for inspiration and encouragement during my personal foray into unknown territory.

**Shifting**  
  
I have been told that time is of no consequence, yet it seems an eternity that I’ve been trying to break through the fog that surrounds me. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, or really, where here is exactly. Things have been coming back to me little by little, allowing me to remember what was. When I finally remembered Harry, it set off a cascade of memories and the beginning of what seemed like a miracle.  
  
There are others here—wherever here is. Others whom I’d never expected to see again. Prongs has been here a long time; though again, time is, apparently, of no consequence. A concept that is difficult to fully grasp for a being that is conditioned from birth to count minutes, hours, days and years.  
  
Prongs told me that I should be able to look in on those left behind. There are only two that I wish to see—only two that matter. And really, my energies are now focused on trying to break through the fog, to see the more important one: Harry, who I think—in what is likely an inflated self-importance—might have been terribly affected by my leaving him and passing on to this place. I’m certain Moony has my little cousin, Nymphadora, to take care of him, so I’m not worried about him.  
  
My first attempts have been met with an unbroken mist and much frustration. Prongs says that I must concentrate, that I should release some of my more earth-bound ideas. The time thing again, which is befuddling to say the least. But more than that, it is difficult to just summon an image, to just spontaneously see what is not there in front of you. I long for an enchanted mirror, or a crystal ball to gaze into.  
  
A mirror actually would be helpful on more than one count, as I do not know what I now look like. I can see arms and legs that are familiar enough, though I don’t feel quite like the living, breathing being that I once was. Prongs looks like he did just before he died, so I imagine that I am the same; his insistence on calling me ‘old man’ only serves to support this theory, though Lily has gently explained that our appearances are only manifestations of our old self-awareness. Which means to me that once I get this ‘looking in on’ bit squared away, I’ll be certain to make an effort to manifest myself into the Sirius Black of old, or rather, young. Vanity does not die.  
  
My efforts are starting to pay off as images of things familiar appear before me; fuzzy shapes are moving into focus, and I suddenly find myself in a candle-lit chamber. I wasn’t expecting to be transported like this, though I feel somewhat relieved at the seemingly solid ground beneath my feet. It’s a bit like stepping into a Pensieve memory. I know that I am not truly in this world, but it is a vivid contrast to the misty gray of the place in which I have existed.  
  
I notice that the chamber I’m standing in is, more specifically, a bedchamber, and that the room itself is unfamiliar. There is a four-poster bed with heavy bed curtains, which are open on one side to allow the heat of the nearby fire to warm the bed’s occupant. A shoulder and the back of a head full of messy, raven hair is all that I can see, but already I feel relieved that I have, at least, managed to find my target.  
  
Harry shifts in the bed; the flickering light from the candles and the banking fire play across his surprisingly broad shoulders. His longish hair falls to one side over his left shoulder toward the elbow he is leaning on, obscuring his profile. It is then that I notice that Harry is not the only occupant of the bed.  
  
I am torn in a couple different directions by this information—first and foremost being that I now feel rather like a peeping Tom. The second being that the Harry I remember is a skinny teenager, one that, presumably, would not be so at ease in this particular situation. I had found the target, but had missed the mark by almost a decade it seems.  
  
The curtain of Harry’s tousled locks hides his bed-partner’s face as well, aided by the deep shadows the dying fire does not quite reach. Although I cannot see it, I feel confident that Harry has leaned down for a kiss. Without breaking that kiss, Harry shifts again and is now astride the mystery person. It is only then that I see that Harry’s bed-partner is not, as I had assumed, a woman (it is most definitely a small patch of pale masculine chest that I am seeing) and I selfishly feel sad, as well as surprised. I would have liked to have been there for Harry when he’d come to this realization about himself. I feel pierced by the loss of the conversations we would never share, the experience and wisdom I would never be able to impart on him. My surprise stems from my former certainty that Harry would eventually notice little Ginny Weasley.  
  
A thin but long and finely muscled leg, sprinkled with dark hairs, is all that I can now see of the man with Harry, which ends my brief speculation that it might then be a male Weasley. I am again torn by my presence here, for such an intimate scene. The moans, sighs, and soft laughter issuing from the bed tell me that Harry is more than content, which is all that I wanted to know, but it has taken such effort on my part to accomplish this view, I am reluctant to leave without a glimpse of his face. Admittedly, the scene is an erotic one, and while I know that I am no longer flesh and blood, and that it’s wrong on so many different levels to be aroused in any capacity by one’s own godson, it is difficult to tear my eyes away from the sight.  
  
Long elegant fingers play over Harry’s golden skin and move toward his nicely rounded bum and muscled thighs. I know I should feel ashamed for even noticing, but I can’t quite work up to it. Harry has, without doubt, grown up very well indeed, and I find nothing wrong in enjoying the aesthetics of his maturity. The fingers, now liberally covered with lubricant thanks to Harry’s careful attention, appear to be experienced and start working on Harry’s cleft, while Harry leans forward, ostensibly to accommodate the intrusion; however, he also takes the opportunity to latch onto the man’s neck. A hiss of appreciation escapes him as the expert fingers prepare him for the next level of pleasure. I remember the sensation, and my own longing to experience such things again paralyzes me.  
  
Harry rises up on his knees while the elegant hands hold his hips, aiding him as he positions himself and descends onto the rather impressive erection beneath him. Another hiss of appreciation turns into a moan of pleasure, as he slowly adjusts to the larger intrusion, inching downward until fully seated. I finally hear from the mystery man on the bed, a low velvety growl and then, “So beautiful…” I have to agree when Harry starts rocking, sheathing and unsheathing the entire length of the man beneath him, throwing his head back, lost in ecstasy.  
  
The way they move together, with such familiarity, without inhibition, tells me that this is not their first encounter. They seem to know instinctively what will please the other most, and it is proven when the smooth velvet voice issues a command, “Come for me, Harry.” He finds his release with the elegant fingers moving deftly over him and the rock hard flesh moving within him, howling with a pleasure that I can barely remember. I am, in all honesty, a bit envious, though I don’t know with any certainty that I cannot experience such things in my new existence—however gray it may be. It’s been a while since the man that I was had indulged in pleasures with either gender; the envy is well justified.  
  
The man graciously allows Harry to come back to himself, and I watch as the elegant hands move to Harry’s inner thighs and then hook behind Harry’s knees. The man is sitting up now, but his hair is longer even than Harry’s, so the face remains hidden and in shadows. Harry kisses him deeply and I marvel at the man’s display of strict self-control. I know what he is about to do, with his arms hooked under Harry’s knees in that manner, and my breath hitches in anticipation.  
  
In one swift, practiced motion, Harry is flat on his back, his knees raised by the man’s arms as he begins to pound relentlessly into Harry, who is spouting words of encouragement and seems quite pleased with his new position. I take a moment to admire the lean, sinewy body now on top, and watch as the mystery man achieves his own roaring climax.  
  
At that moment, his head is thrown back, but I look at Harry first to see his face shining with satisfaction, and then I look at the man whose face is finally revealed to me….  
  
His identity is so completely, appallingly ridiculous and absolutely outrageous that I know I must be mistaken. All that gray mist has, evidently, affected my eyesight. I rub my eyes and look again, closer this time, and I feel a rage, such as I’ve never known before, begin to build up through my being. That greasy, big-nosed bastard is lucky that I’m already dead. Knowing this doesn’t stop me from trying my damndest to wrap my fingers around his scrawny neck.  
  
 _"Bastard! Sodding arsehole! Get your greasy hands off of him, you arrogant little prick! Ex-Death Eater my arse!”_  
  
My words fall on deaf ears and my throttling efforts are wasted. No—this isn’t real. It is absolutely not possible that Snivellus bloody Snape is _buggering_ a willing Harry Potter. It must be a spell—or a potion. Or I’ve done this wrong. That’s what it is—I’ve landed myself in some sort of odd parallel universe....  
  
How could this happen?  
  
I will myself to return to my gray world, where I intend to start the process from the beginning, and this time, find the correct universe.  
  
Opening my eyes, I find myself not in the swirling gray, but instead I am in a smallish Muggle bedroom. Harry—my Harry, the one I remember—is seated at an abused desk facing the window, and in my relief, I long to embrace him. I settle for standing beside him, curious now as to what he is reading with such a ferocious look on his face.  
  
Ah, _The Daily Prophet_. My relief broadens as I see the feature photo on the front page. The greasy bastard is wanted for murder. That makes much more sense. Now I must be in the right place, except that—oh… he’s apparently wanted for the murder of Dumbledore. Now I’m confused again. Dumbledore is dead?  
  
By the looks of it, the newspaper has been manhandled, and I assume it’s more than a few days old; though, the date that appears at the top exceeds my own memory by more than a year. The photo of Snape sneering out at the world seems to be the focus of Harry’s glare and I wish, once again, to be corporeal, to be there for Harry. Clearly he’s grieving, but I am taken aback by what I see in Harry’s face. It is a disconcerting thing to see such murderous intention pouring through familiar glasses from the bright green eyes, Lily’s eyes, and boring into the photo. While I agree that the bastard must be dealt with—preferably with as much pain as possible—I do not wish for Harry to be the one to administer that treatment, nor do I wish for him to become Snape’s executioner.  
  
As Harry slams the newspaper down on the desk, my surroundings abruptly change. I am still standing beside Harry; however, we are now walking on a Muggle street. Harry is carrying a cardboard box in front of him, the contents of which I cannot see. His destination appears to be a small house in a row of identical houses, and the area seems vaguely familiar to me, but I cannot recall when I might have been in such a place. Harry summons the home’s occupant with the bell, and I recognize Arabella Figg, who seems much older and much more frail than the last time we met.  
  
“Harry, dear, come in, come in!” She smiles warmly at him, ushering him into the house. I move quickly to follow; more earth-bound ideas perhaps, but since I do not know if it’s possible, I don’t think now is the time to experiment with passing through solid objects.  
  
“Hello, Mrs. Figg. Thanks for letting me come over with this. I appreciate it.” They are standing in the foyer; Harry nervously shifts the weight of the box while Mrs. Figg reaches up to his cheek with a papery, arthritic hand in a gesture of affection. Harry flinches ever so slightly, but holds his ground and allows her to pat him lightly on the face. This gesture draws attention to the fact that Harry is towering over the woman, and I realize that he is now nearly as tall as I am, or rather, as tall as I remember being.  
  
“Don’t you even mention it. I’m glad to help. You should be all right to do magic here, as long as you don’t get carried away. Now that the Ministry knows I’m here, they’re not keeping as sharp an eye on the area as they did when they thought you were the only one here with ties to the magical community. But I daresay that with all that’s…happened…they’d best expect people to be able to…. Oh dear, I thought I’d got this all out of me….”  
  
As a dainty handkerchief is drawn from her sleeve to dab at her teary eyes, Harry looks slightly horrified and appears to want to jump out of his skin and run away from the scene. I must say that I’m feeling similarly inclined.  
  
“I’m sorry, Harry. A person who gets to be my age grows accustomed to losing people at an alarming rate. But Dumbledore just seemed so….” She takes a breath, makes a visible effort to gather herself and continues, “Pay me no mind. You’re welcome here. Come this way, and I’ll show you where you can set that up.”  
  
Harry looks relieved and says again, “Thanks, Mrs. Figg.”  
  
Either by courtesy or pre-arranged design, Mrs. Figg leaves Harry alone in the room, though the many cats and Kneazles that seem to infest the place have free reign. I struggle with some residual canine instincts and focus my attention back on Harry.  
  
Now that the contents of the box are laid out on the small dining room table, I see that Harry has been carrying a Pensieve, and several stoppered bottles. The exterior of the box, its cardboard appearance, is misleadingly transfigured. Inside it’s a dark wood, lined with a deep plum-colored velvet, and it appears that the Pensieve fits snuggly and securely into the bottom of it; the stoppered bottles that Harry has set out are only a few of the dozens that are contained within.  
  
Harry chooses one of the bottles from those on the table—the one cleverly labeled ‘This one first’—and carefully pours the contents into the Pensieve bowl where it swirls around like liquid light. To my relief, Harry chooses to view the memory outside of the Pensieve, prodding it with the tip of his wand—I don’t know if I’d’ve been able to follow him inside. He prods the memory again, this time an image materializes just above the bowl.  
  
It’s Dumbledore, seated at his desk in his office at Hogwarts. Harry looks stricken by the sight, and I wish I could comfort him. The memory is more opaque than solid, and not quite as clear as entering it fully would be, but it is clear enough to see without effort.  
  
“Ah. Severus, you are enjoying your summer holiday, I trust?” Dumbledore gestures to the chair across the desk from him.  
  
The question is met by the ever-present scowl, and I wonder at the Headmaster’s ability to remain congenial in the face of it. I personally would like to rearrange that scowling face—with my bare hands.  
  
“No, Albus, I am not. We have a problem. A rather large problem, in fact—compliments of Bellatrix Lestrange. I’ve had a visit from Narcissa Malfoy, her wretched sister in tow.”  
  
At the mention of my lovely cousins I look to Harry, and something in his face, something in that horrified, angry face sparks a memory for me. I can’t quite grasp it, but I have the oddest feeling that Bella is the reason for my new existence in the gray mist. Try as I might, though, I cannot bring forth the memory of my last moments in the world, and my futile efforts have caused me to miss much of the Pensieve memory.  
  
“Severus, please know that if there were any other way, I would not choose to end my life this way; however, as you are aware, my time on this earth is already nearing an end. Your clever potion is sustaining me, impeding the Dark Magic that is slowly ravaging my wand arm. It is not a cure. There is much that I must do before the time comes, much that I have to show Harry. And it is imperative that we find a way to help Draco make the right decision—”  
  
Snape looks both incredulous and scornful as he interrupts Dumbledore, “Albus, have you gone mad? Draco has already made the wrong decision. And if he fails to complete his mission, the Vow dictates that I must do it in his stead. Apart from killing you, which I am strangely reluctant to do, you are also asking me to become ‘The Man Who Murdered Dumbledore’. There has got to be another way, there is always _another way_.”  
  
Each memory that Harry views is much the same: Snape arguing the plan, Dumbledore calmly explaining it’s the only way. I also learn that apparently Snape finally got his wish to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and I am tempted to laugh at the irony of it when I discover that there really is a curse on the position.  
  
Harry looks stricken and a bit as if someone has _Confunded_ him. He watches the same memories over and over again. I know he is looking for something that will tell him they’ve been altered. Again I wish for the ability to reach him, to tell him that it is a wasted effort. There is no way to successfully alter a memory; there is always something, usually something glaringly obvious, that gives it away. Another benefit of a Pensieve is that the perspective of the person to whom the memory belongs does not color the memories. These memories are clean and true.  
  
I have the same _Confunded_ feeling as Harry, but I don’t have much time to contemplate what I’ve learned, as the scenery around me changes again.  
  
The Shrieking Shack is where I land, in between two combatants it seems.  
  
“That is quite enough, Potter. I am weary of your attitude. Your insistence on dwelling on matters that have no bearing on our purpose is tiresome. This ridiculous meeting has cut into my busy schedule as a fugitive from justice. I told Albus that your arrogance would not allow you to accept my assistance; I assure you, it suits me very well to never again be subjected to your unexceptional company. I have, however, kept my promise to Albus by meeting you here.” As he turns and gathers his cloak he says, “Good day to you, Mr. Potter. I wish you luck; you will need it.”  
  
I want very much to defend Harry to the bastard, as I make a distinction in death (or after-death) that likely I would not have seen in life: Harry is not arrogant. He is stubbornly self-sufficient—no doubt a result of his neglected childhood. James, on the other hand, was indeed an arrogant berk as a teenager and only grew out of it with Lily’s help. My moment of lucidity is wasted on only myself, as neither of these people can hear me.  
  
I note with some satisfaction that Snape looks a little worse for the wear. Apparently, being on the run doesn’t agree with him anymore than it suited me. I feel a petty yearning to rub his face in his change of fortune.  
  
Harry struggles with something within himself. I can only imagine the conflict is between a desire to be well shut of the man, and some need, unknown to me. He finally says, “Snape, wait. Please….”  
  
Getting no response other than a raised eyebrow, he takes a breath and changes tactics. “I have Dumbledore’s Pensieve, and the memories he stored about your part in his death. I can clear your name.”  
  
“Mr. Potter, I have never harbored any foolish notions or sentimental fantasies of my surviving this war. Whether or not the world knows of my true involvement is of no concern to me.”  
  
“I…. Couldn’t you….” Harry seems at a loss, and I see a bit of desperation cross his face.  
  
“Spit it out, _boy_ , I haven’t got all day.” Snape is again lucky that I am already dead, as the need to throttle the snarling man fills me.  
  
It ends up that spitting it out is actually an apt description; Harry seems to be choking on the words as he speaks them. “I can’t find the Horcruxes and destroy them without you. Please—I…I need your help.”  
  
I can see what the admission has cost Harry, and I find myself conflicted by the fact that I am now hoping for Snape to see it too. He studies Harry for a moment, looking down his considerable nose at him. I hate myself for the sigh of relief I experience when Snape relents. I don’t know what a Horcrux is, but it appears to be important to Harry.  
  
“Then you shall have it, Mr. Potter.”  
  
My world suddenly shifts again. I’m now in a study, though whose study, I can’t say. The room is not overly large, and is masculine in feel; leather club chairs are situated by the fire, and the general décor is comprised of dark greens and rich wood. The ambient lighting is pleasantly low and, surprisingly, powered by what appears to be Muggle electricity. There are bookshelves built into the wall on either side of a tall window on each end of the room, and on one end there is a small, comfortable looking sofa, on the other is a table with a large old-fashioned desk lamp in the center. At which, I now see, Harry is seated across from Snape, a tower of old books in between them.  
  
Harry is looking anxiously through one of the dusty tomes. “I had no idea…. The stuff in here is unbelievable.”  
  
Snape looks at Harry with a slightly mocking expressing. “Yes, Mr. Potter, this _stuff_ , as you so eloquently put it, is illegal with good reason. Imagine a world where _this_ ,” Snape points a long, tapered finger to a section of the book he’s holding as he pushes it toward Harry, “were to be preformed without restriction.”  
  
From where I stand, I cannot see what it is that he’s pointing to, but Harry blanches at the sight of it. I can only imagine the horror displayed on the page. “Oh….”  
  
“Indeed.” There is a bit of amusement in his voice that I might have missed, were it not for the look I see on his face just before he buries his large nose back into his book. It seems absurdly out of character for him, the smirk—almost a smile—it’s sort of frightening, really.  
  
Harry sighs in evident frustration and closes his own book with a loud thump.  
  
“Do be careful, Your Majesty, these volumes are very old, and very rare.”  
  
“Please don’t start that _Majesty_ stuff again.” Harry said this with a sigh and a good-natured scowl. “I never should have told you about the castle.”  
  
“You cannot possibly have so little regard for my powers of observation to believe that I would not have noticed an entire castle?”  
  
“You didn’t say anything. Three months you’ve been coming here, and not a word.”  
  
“I was biding my time, Mr. Potter. Information such as that is much more satisfying when it is used at precisely the right moment.”  
  
“It’s not like I live in it; this is the servants’ cottage if you hadn’t noticed. Anyway, it barely counts—it’s just a small castle.” Harry looks sheepish now, and I wonder what castle they are talking about.  
  
“But a castle, nonetheless.” Snape just raises that infuriating eyebrow of his.  
  
“All right, so I own a castle. It came with the property, which was a good deal, is very isolated, and had Muggle owners. I couldn’t have you popping in at all hours with neighbors peeking in the windows, could I?”  
  
“It must be terrible for you—being so far away from your fans, sacrificing access to endless hours of adulation, for this isolated, bucolic setting. However are you coping?” The damn eyebrow again. He’s saying this in a dry tone, but I can’t tell if Harry is upset by the exchange—he seems slightly irritated, but not actually hurt by it.  
  
“Enough already. I get the point. Anyway, being a Prince is your department, not mine.” As I struggle to make sense of this conversation, Snape rises from his seat at the table and stalks over to the bookshelves—looking every bit the mortician with his stiff black robes, sallow pallor, and a dark look on his face.  
  
“Potter, we’ve managed, thus far, to work in a relatively amicable association. We’ve even achieved some surprising success in our endeavors. Why ever would you jeopardize that by dredging up the less than pleasant points of our mostly vexatious past acquaintance?”  
  
Harry sighs and looks contrite, though I notice—quite happily—that he doesn’t offer an apology. “You’re right. I won’t do it again, if you’ll leave off the _Majesty_ business.”  
  
Snape just makes a non-committal noise, his full attention on the books. He lifts a hand and runs his fingers over the bindings of various titles. Unbelievably, it is a gesture done in a way that I can only describe as lovingly. I look to Harry, to see what he makes of this. His expression is the same as one might wear while trying to figure out an exceptionally difficult puzzle.  
  
“You miss him.” Harry says this in a quiet voice, which contains the barest hint of surprise. I’m at a loss as to whom Harry means, or why Snape’s book fondling would make Harry say that.  
  
Without looking up from the volume in his hands, Snape says, “I— It is…complicated.”  
  
He then looks up and scrutinizes Harry before continuing in a low, careful voice, “Most of the world knew Albus Dumbledore to be a benevolent, if eccentric old man—like some colorful, jolly Father Christmas handing out sweets to children. And he often was those things. He was also cunning, manipulative, and sometimes, uncompromising. But to me, he represented the one constant in a turbulent world, a beacon of sorts.”  
  
Snape’s expression indicates that he is slightly perplexed by his own words, like he can’t believe that he’s said them aloud. Harry looks startled more than anything, but he also looks like he’s just come to a somewhat shocking realization, and I wonder what is going on in that head of his.  
  
Before Snape can change the subject, Harry says quietly, “I know what you mean. Even when I was angry with him, I still felt like I could count on him, that he’d always be there….” He pauses briefly, watching Snape admire the library’s contents. “I have more—his books, I mean. They didn’t all fit on the shelves. If you wanted you could, er, pick some out.”  
  
Snape seems to be a bit thrown. “That is a very generous offer, Mr. Potter. I think, however, that it would be best if the collection were to remain intact.”  
  
“Oh, right. But if you change your mind….”  
  
Snape doesn’t answer, and they both seem to be lost in their own thoughts, though Harry is sneaking looks at Snape that I cannot interpret. He’s thumbing through the same book again, and then he sighs and pushes the book away from him. “This is useless.”  
  
“Quite the pessimistic statement for a Gryffindor, Potter. Surely it’s not as bleak as all that, we are nearly there.”  
  
“And you’re being oddly optimistic, for a Slytherin.” Snape looks appalled that someone would suggest such a thing. Undaunted, Harry continues, “Anyway, I’m not a Gryffindor anymore; I didn’t go back to school, remember?”  
  
“Once a Gryffindor, always a Gryffindor.”  
  
“Not necessarily—look at Wormtail. Not much of a Gryffindor, if you ask me.”  
  
Snape gets a sour look on his face at the mention of the rat. On this, I have to agree. I wish, ever so briefly, that I had chosen to become a ghost. As much as I would hate to be shackled to this world, observing and interacting, but never fully participating—watching people eat food and drink spirits that I could never taste—the idea of haunting Peter Pettigrew, of making his wretched life ever more miserable with my constantly-reminding presence, has a very warming appeal.  
  
“The Sorting Hat does have its limitations. In Wormtail’s case, it is likely he was assigned to Gryffindor by process of elimination. The hat would surely have found him lacking in intelligence, and would have seen an inability to remain loyal and steadfast as well, effectively ruling out Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. And, thank Merlin, he also possessed little or no ambition other than his own survival, leaving the hat with no choice but Gryffindor.”  
  
Harry didn’t answer him. In fact, Harry looks very much as if someone or something has suddenly struck him without warning.  
  
“Potter, are you unwell?”  
  
“I know what it is.”  
  
“Whatever are you talking about?”  
  
“The only unidentified Horcrux—I know what it is! Talking about the Sorting Hat made me think of Dumbledore’s office, and I suddenly remembered what he said about Riddle collecting trophies. It’s so simple, and it’s at Hogwarts.”  
  
“Are you certain, or is this just speculation?”  
  
There is a spark in Harry’s eye that I enjoy seeing there, and he’s speaking in an excited rush. “Oh, I’m sure. See, Riddle got an award for Services to the School when he accused Hagrid of opening the Chamber of Secrets, and got him expelled. That award is exactly the type of thing he would use. A trophy of his getting one over on Dumbledore is perfect; not to mention, it’s been sitting in the school for all these years, safe and sound—with the added bonus of it being right under Dumbledore’s nose.”  
  
Snape is looking at Harry like he’s never seen him before. “Well done, Mr. Potter.” His look turns to one that is calculating and something else I cannot define. “As it is safe and sound, I suggest that we concentrate our current efforts on locating and destroying the Hufflepuff chalice, and then the snake, which promises to be the most difficult. Knowing is half the battle, Potter. Very well done indeed.”  
  
I can’t explain what’s just happened here, but I have a sinking feeling that I am not the only thing shifting. As the scenery changes, the last thing I see is the pleased look on Harry’s face.  
  
Once my surroundings settle, I find myself by the lake at Hogwarts. I’m on the bank opposite that of the school, which has an air of emptiness about it; though, I do see a sparse few students across the lake, moving around the grounds.  
  
Behind me, on a cropping of rocks, sits Harry along with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. I’m pleased to see that Harry has kept up with his friends.  
  
“You must be going barmy, mate. I mean, spending all that time with the ugly git.” I don’t need to see the disgusted look on Ron’s face in order to know of whom they are speaking.  
  
“It’s not so bad, really. I’m learning loads from him.” Harry looks a bit sheepish as he says this, but Ron appears not to have noticed.  
  
“Funny how he can teach you now. When he was getting paid to teach, he was useless enough.”  
  
“Well, the fact that the more I learn from him, the better the chance I might not _die_ when the time comes is a pretty powerful motivator.” Harry now looks a bit flushed. “Anyway, he’s different….” As I’ve already seen the end result, I know where this is going. I still want to shake some sense into him.  
  
I see Hermione’s sharp eye scrutinizing Harry, and I feel relieved. She’s picked up on it too. Maybe she can talk some sense into him. “Harry?”  
  
He looks her in the eye for moment, and then answers her unasked question with just a single word, “Yeah….” flushing to the roots of his hair.  
  
“Oh…. Oh! Well, I suppose I can sort of see the appeal there. He does have a certain _presence_ , doesn’t he?”  
  
“And then some….” Harry sighs. “And that voice….” They say this last bit in unison and all my hopes now rest with Ron, who looks perplexed by the exchange. Surely he’ll object.  
  
“Does he…you know, feel the same way?”  
  
“No! No, of course not. I haven’t exactly declared anything to him, anyway.” Harry covers his face, fingers sneaking under his glasses to rub at his eyes, and for one horrified moment I think that he is crying. It is, however, a slightly hysterical laugh. “What kind of perverse idiot am I? Falling for someone who I’ve spent years _hating_ , someone who can barely tolerate my existence on the planet, much less stand to be in the same room with me? I must be sick in the head….”  
  
“Harry, it can’t be that bad. He’s been helping you all these months….”  
  
“Hermione, it’s Snape we’re talking about here. Anyway, he’s just helping me because he promised Dumbledore—”  
  
When Ron finally cottons on to what they’re saying, I have to laugh at the rapid changes in facial expression. He settles on confused and slightly disgusted. “Harry! What about Ginny?”  
  
“What about her? I do still care for her, but she’s not waiting for me. We had it out at your brother’s wedding—remember? I don’t want her to wait around for me; I don’t even know that I’m going to be alive when it’s all said and done. And who knows when that will be anyway?”  
  
Hermione, apparently not happy with Harry’s talk of death, chimes in, “Don’t talk like that, Harry. You’re going to beat him, and you’re not going to die.”  
  
“You don’t know that, Hermione. I mean, even though Dumbledore basically said the prophecy is coming true because we’ve chosen to make it come true, there’s not a bit in there that says: ‘Harry Potter will defeat Voldemort and go on to live a long and prosperous life.’ Is there?”  
  
“But I do know that, Harry. You have to beat him. You have to, because if you don’t, nobody else will.”  
  
Ron looks appalled. “No pressure though, eh, Hermione?”  
  
“No, that’s not what I meant at all! Just that, since everybody assumes the prophecy is about you, Harry, and since Dumbledore is not around anymore, you’re sort of the last line of defense. I just don’t think there is anyone else out there that would choose to challenge him, and I don’t think there’s anyone out there who has the same chance of success that you do. It gives people hope.” She looks upset by the misunderstanding, but Harry soothes her quickly enough.  
  
“It’s okay, Hermione. I’ve already made my choice—I’m going to stop him. It’s that simple.” Harry looks out over the lake with a wistful expression on his face, and I wonder what he’s thinking about.  
  
“Getting back to this Snape thing, Harry.” The tall redhead finally seems to be channeling my intentions. “Are you…? I mean, it’s Snape—” _C'mon, Ron, you can do it_.  
  
Ron takes a deep breath and tries again. "Are you sure about this? You know—Charlie goes for blokes and he's older…. I mean, if it’s just blokes…." Harry looks intrigued for a moment, and I am suddenly more hopeful.  
  
"Charlie does?" But Harry waves off the suggestion. "No, I couldn't do that, Ron. Not only is Charlie in another country, I don't know if it's a 'liking blokes' thing so much as a 'having feelings for this particular person' thing."  
  
Fortunately, Ron does not look convinced. He lets out a breath. "I—"  
  
“Ron…” Hermione breaks in with a warning in her voice. _Don’t listen to her, lad; someone has to talk some sense into Harry!_  
  
“Let me finish, Hermione.” He’s looking Harry squarely in the face now. “Harry, I can’t say that I understand what in the world you see in him, but if that’s who you choose, I’m not going to argue with you. I just want you to be happy, mate.”  
  
My champion falls—my hope along with him.  
  
“Thanks, Ron. I’m not exactly happy, but the idea of ‘maybe’ is sort of nice.” Harry gets a sparkle of mischief in his eyes before he continues, “He’s still a snarky prick, but he’s dead sexy in a strange sort of way. I think it’s because he’s so smart.”  
  
I expect Ron to be repulsed, as I am, but he chuckles. “Smart _is_ sexy. _That_ I can agree with.”  
  
Hermione is fairly glowing and continues to do so when Ron leans down to plant a kiss on her lips. Well, I guess they finally figured it out. At least I got that much right.  
  
Harry smiles at them indulgently, and when they break apart Ron asks, “So, mate, I don’t reckon you came all the way here to confess your undying love for Snape.” He says it with a shudder—my sentiments exactly.  
  
“I think we’ve found the last one, the last Horcrux.” Again, I don’t know what a Horcrux is, but it is evidently key to whatever Harry is doing, as Hermione gasps at the statement.  
  
“Harry, that’s fantastic! Where is it, what is it?”  
  
“I’m fairly certain it’s here, in the trophy room. Remember, Ron, when you had to polish all the plaques and trophies back in second-year?” I have no knowledge of this particular memory, but I am intimately familiar with detentions like the one they’re describing, and I chuckle to myself.  
  
“How could I forget? I had to do it by hand, and I kept belching up slugs on the same award…. Blimey, Harry! You mean the award to Tom Riddle? Wanker had it right here all these years?”  
  
“Yeah, well, I’m fairly certain that’s what it is. I need to either get it out of there, or get Snape into the school. We’ve pretty much worked out a system for breaking the curse in tandem. It’s worked for us so far, and I think that’s where Dumbledore went wrong—trying to do it alone.” I’m thankful that at least the git is helpful to Harry in some way.  
  
“I haven’t worked it all out yet, but I thought I’d go talk to McGonagall. She can’t know about Snape; I can’t take any chances on word getting back to Voldemort that Snape is working against him, but I can get into the school under my ‘Independent Studies’ cover.” Harry shrugs his shoulders, but I suspect he’s not feeling nearly as casual as that gesture implies.  
  
“Aren’t you excited, Harry? The last one!” Hermione is clearly proud of Harry, for all that he’s apparently accomplished, but Harry continues his casual pose.  
  
“Well, I’m glad that I’ve been able to do this much, and I owe you both for your help with it, but each one I do away with is one step closer to facing him. It does feel good to have come this far.” He looks out at the lake again before continuing, “Sometimes I wish that Sirius were still here, for lots of reasons; though I reckon he’d do his nut about Snape. But I really think he’d like to know that his brother was actually working against Voldemort at the end. We’ve come a long way since that first one, eh?”  
  
The mention of my name, and that of my brother, causes me to pause. I know that there is no longer an organ in the middle of my chest, but this does not stop me from suffering the dropping sensation one experiences upon hearing shocking news.  
  
I don’t get a chance to properly process the information, as I find my surroundings changing once again, and I am now in a dungeon of sorts. It might be Hogwarts, I don’t know for certain. I do know that I am not alone.  
  
“ _Ennervate! Ennervate!_ Wake up! Idiot boy! I cannot take you to Pomfrey. Wake up this instant, Mr. Potter!”  
  
Snape is standing over but not touching Harry, who appears to be unconscious. An award plaque is lying on the ground next to him, broken in two and smoking slightly at the break in the middle of it. Snape’s lame attempt, unsurprisingly, does not revive Harry.  
  
While Snape is uselessly staring at Harry’s prone form, I pace the confines of the dungeon. I want desperately, despite myself, to beg him to help Harry—when he does the most extraordinary thing.  
  
He falls to his knees and gently lifts Harry’s head onto his lap, cradling him in the most unexpected way. I can only stare at Snape, as if I don’t recognize that ugly and perfectly recognizable face.  
  
“Pot—Harry, you stupid, stupid boy.” I want to take offense at his words, except they’re said with such tenderness and affection that I am again taken aback. I feel lost, and the ground beneath my feet no longer seems solid. _Who is this man?_  
  
“What were you thinking of, jumping in front of me like that, you idiot?” He brushes some hair away from Harry’s face, another unbelievably affectionate gesture.  
  
He stays that way until Harry starts making small movements that seem to indicate he’s coming around. I watch as Snape gently lowers him to the cold dungeon floor and moves as far away as possible.  
  
A cough from Harry, and then in a raspy voice he says, “Snape?”  
  
“If you are quite finished with the dramatics, Mr. Potter, it is vital for us to take our leave of this place before Peeves, or one of the ghosts, finds us and raises the alarm. This dungeon is little used, but it is not, by any means, secure—for either of us.”  
  
A small smile touches Harry’s lips before he responds, “Did we do it? Don’t you realize what this means?”  
  
“Yes, we did _it_ , and what _this_ means, Mr. Potter, is that we still have much work ahead of us. We’ve made some progress, but you are not, by any stretch of the imagination, prepared to face him.”  
  
The last I see of the scene is Harry’s smile, and I am thoroughly baffled by what I’ve just seen of Severus Snape.  
  
My surroundings shift yet again, and I’m in what appears to be a barn. Harry’s tee shirt is sweat-soaked and his hair is plastered to his face and dripping as well. He’s clearly exhausted, bent over holding his side and breathing hard.  
  
“Again!” Snape commands.  
  
“Please, I can’t…. I just need a second.” I want to plead Harry’s case for him, but at the same time, I know what Snape is doing, and for once, I approve.  
  
“No! No _second_!” Suddenly Snape is bearing down at Harry, who, while not short, is not nearly as tall. His face is twisted into an indignant sneer. “Do not think for one moment that the Dark Lord will consider your delicate constitution and give you a _second_ to catch your breath. Make no mistake, Mr. Potter—he is merciless, he will kill you without a thought and without considerable effort. Now, again!”  
  
Harry stands to his full height, a determined look on his face, and a gleam in his eyes with his wand at the ready. I feel very proud of him, and I see now that Snape does as well.  
  
My surroundings change again. I’m in the same space, only this time the duelers are wearing different clothes. The hexes and curses are flying all around me, a great many of them unknown to me, and for the first time during all of this hopping and shifting that I’m doing, I’m grateful that I’m am not flesh and blood, as said hexes and curses pass through me with abandon.  
  
Harry is moving like a cat, quick and graceful, evading the hexes aimed toward him, while simultaneously volleying curses back at Snape. He is like machine, an amazingly well oiled and well-trained machine. I notice now that he is doing all of this without a wand. Nothing distracts him, as Snape’s razor tongue is hurling insults and slurs, just as precisely and viciously as his wand is issuing counter-curses and hexes.  
  
Harry only relents once he has Snape disarmed and on the ground. Now that the action has stopped, the silence that hangs in the air is deafening. Once the ringing clears, all that can be heard is the labored breathing of the defeated.  
  
Snape sits back on his haunches, and Harry grins as he offers him a hand.  
  
When Harry says, “Again?” I see what looks, incredibly, like triumph hiding behind Snape’s evil grin.  
  
As they move into position again, Harry asks, “Did you really call me a scruffy looking puffskein herder?” The question earns Harry a surprising and genuine laugh from Snape before my surroundings start to fade once more.  
  
The scenery swirls around me again and I’m now in a graveyard. It’s dark and pouring rain, but thankfully, I don’t feel it. There’s evidence of a battle in this mud. Looking around I spot several of the fallen, most of which are, thankfully, wearing Death Eater’s robes.  
  
One in particular catches my attention. The strange looking serpent-like face can only be Voldemort. He’s lying in the muck, covered with it as well as blood, and the pouring down rain. Firmly imbedded in the middle of his chest is a jewel-encrusted sword. Good riddance to bad rubbish.  
  
Where is Harry, though? I can see little puffs of steam here and there; it must be a cold rain, and I’m glad because the puffs I’m seeing mean that there are survivors.  
  
Wending my way through the gravestones, I almost miss him. My heart, which isn’t really there, misses a beat at seeing his hunched-over position. He’s holding a limp Severus Snape, trying desperately to revive him.  
  
“ _Ennervate! Ennervate!_ Come on, you bastard. You are not getting away from me that easily!”  
  
“Would you please be quiet? There are people trying to die an undignified death in the mire.” Snape only opened one eye, though, I can tell even that much took some effort; he appears to be grievously injured. “What do you want?”  
  
“You can’t die, you idiot, I haven’t told you how I feel about you yet. What in the world were you thinking, throwing yourself in front of me like that?” Harry is clearly torn between relief and wanting to shake Snape. Good, that’s more like it—except I’m not feeling that particular sentiment as strongly anymore.  
  
“I was thinking, Mr. Potter, that it would be a good idea if you were not killed before you got to the Dark Lord. Now, go away, so I can finish dying.”  
  
“I’m not letting you die.”  
  
“Surely your arrogance has not finally advanced into delusions of omnipotence?” The fight seems to go out of him though. “Harry, I have nothing left. Please, I’ve completed everything I was supposed to do. I was not expecting to live even this long.”  
  
Harry has one arm under the back of Snape’s head, and with the other he is tenderly wiping the rain, blood and mud away from the man’s face. Instead of answering him, Harry leans down and kisses him gently on the lips.  
  
“I reckon you weren’t expecting that either, Severus. But life is full of the unexpected, so you’d best get used to it.”  
  
Snape sighs dramatically before answering in a put-upon manner, “Severus, is it now?” He sighs again, a slight wheeze in his voice, “I suppose you’ll be insufferable and impossible to live with now that you’ve vanquished him.”  
  
“Reason enough, right there, to stick around, Severus. Who else will keep my ego in check?”  
  
Harry is leaning down to kiss him again, and this time, Snape’s hand comes up to sink into the hair on the back of Harry’s head. I find that I am, surprisingly, not repulsed by this action. The last thing I see, before the swirling scenery draws me away, is Ron and Hermione running hand-in-hand toward the couple on the ground.  
  
I surrender my prejudices and find that I am once again in the fire-lit bedchamber.  
  
My journey has been fraught with emotion, and I am relieved to be back in this room, in the presence of something that I now understand is unique and precious.  
  
I watch once again as they move together, with that familiarity and without inhibition, knowing instinctively what will please the other most. Severus’ smooth velvet voice issues a command, “Come for me, Harry.” And Harry finds his release with the elegant fingers moving deftly over him and Severus moving inside of him. I am still a bit envious, although, this time it is for what they share more than the barely remembered physical sensations.  
  
Severus waits for Harry to come back to himself, and I watch as his elegant hands again move to Harry’s inner thighs and then hook behind Harry’s knees. As Severus sits up, Harry kisses him deeply, and I again marvel at the man’s display of strict self-control. Having already witnessed it, my breath hitches in anticipation of Severus’ next move.  
  
In that same swift, practiced motion, Harry is again flat on his back, his knees raised by Severus’ arms as Severus thrusts with abandon into Harry, who is spouting words of encouragement, clearly enjoying the experience. Severus finally achieves his own roaring climax, and I witness now what I missed in my haste to re-write their history.  
  
Severus gently releases Harry’s legs and leans forward, surrounded by Harry’s loving embrace, and Harry soothes the man as he comes back to himself. A softly spoken, _‘Scourgify’_ , and then gentle caresses and breathless kisses follow. Without speaking, they move as one to right themselves on the bed and crawl under the abundant linens and blankets. Harry is draped over Severus’ chest, and although I cannot see it, I know that Harry has a leg thrown over Severus as well.  
  
As they settle in, I hear Harry say softly, in a sleepy voice, “Love you, Severus.” And I watch as warm emotions play over my former enemy’s normally cold face. I think it’s likely that he still cannot believe how his life has turned out, and I find that I am glad for his incredulity at his luck, and maybe even a sense of unworthiness, to have Harry in his arms. I know that as long as he feels this way, Harry will be well loved and appreciated.  
  
He kisses the top of Harry’s head. Although Harry is already sleeping, there’s no mistaking the response and the feeling behind it. “And I love you, Harry.”  
  
I know what’s happened here now; I know what set me on my journey. And asking how this happened, and then willing myself to go back to the beginning has shown me more than I ever would have thought to ask. It is well past time to take my leave. I’m nearly startled out of my non-existent skin, however, by someone calling my name.  
  
“Sirius? It’s time.” James is before me, and I’m grateful to be seen and heard once again.  
  
“Jamie, did you know about this?” The love I feel for this man, my best friend, and the joy I feel at seeing him again has me using a nickname that pre-dates ‘Prongs’.  
  
“I did. I’m glad he finally has love, and peace after all that he’s been through. I couldn’t possibly ask for more than that for my son.” I realize as he says this that Harry, the man on the bed before me, is older than James, the father looking in on him. Although it’s strange to see the paternal pride directed toward a man older than the source of it, it feels absolutely right.  
  
I realize suddenly that time really is of no consequence, and that no matter how old Harry gets to be, he will always be James and Lily’s boy.  
  
“Come along, Sirius. Let’s go home.”  
  
“Back to the gray mist….” I’m not looking forward to it, but at least there are people there who can see me.  
  
“I think you might find it a little different, Padfoot.” As he says this to me, the scenery around me changes once again.  
  
Clear blue sky, soft green grass, and beautiful white sand greet my eyes. I can feel the warmth of the sun, and the clear cool water lapping at my ankles. There is a crowd of people gathered, some familiar and some forgotten. Lily waves at me from a beach area, stunning as always, wearing some flowing gossamer robes and smiling happily at me.  
  
I look around in wonderment. “Where is the all the gray mist, Jamie?”  
  
“You’ve come through it now, Sirius, to the other side.” He smiles brightly, as a beautiful purple and green phoenix lands on a nearby rock. “Show off,” he says to the bird.  
  
I’m stunned as the bird suddenly changes into a man, a very familiar man. “Dumbledore?”  
  
“We’ve been waiting for you, my boy. Isn’t it wonderful, this new adventure?”  
  
Looking around at the faces, some I haven’t seen in a lifetime or longer, I can only agree.  
  
I left Harry in very good hands, and having finally accepted my new existence and all the possibilities that now seem open to me, I can only laugh to release the joy bubbling within.  
  
True freedom lies before me, and I am finally ready to enjoy it.  
  
  
 _FIN_  
  


* * *


End file.
